


Portraits of Aziraphale

by Puddlelime



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Human Crowley (Good Omens), I suffered so you all get to suffer too, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Temporary Amnesia, for a good chunck of the fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-12 16:35:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29138667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Puddlelime/pseuds/Puddlelime
Summary: “Do you know what the most envied trait of a human is, Aziraphale?”“I’m not going to answer that. You're probably just messing with me again, you willy serpent.”“The most envied trait of a human is, they can choose to end it all, to restart, to forget.”
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Kudos: 6





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [V07225](https://archiveofourown.org/users/V07225/gifts).
  * A translation of [亚茨拉菲尔的画像](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26815960) by [V07225](https://archiveofourown.org/users/V07225/pseuds/V07225). 



> This is a Chinese to English translation,  
> Please comment and kudo the original work if you enjoyed this.  
> Also, this story doesn't end happily.

“He showed up himself.” Crowley insists, sitting at a table. He is wearing a set of black clothes and a snake-shaped bracelet adorns his wrist. “Nobody believes me, that he showed on his own in my paintings.” 

Five o’clock in the afternoon, the sun had been sinking into the horizon. The last bit of light falls from the gothic roof of the Westminster Catherdral like thin sand. The stream of sand blending with crumpled, golden leaves, turning into dust as the sunlight fades. 

Painter, Anthony.J.Crowley, is sitting by a window in a little bar. He is holding a cup of wine as if it was boiling water with both of his hands. His fingertips pressed against the glass, only to bounce away in fear of getting burned. Hastur, the man wearing a brown top, sat on the other side of the table. Face white as sheets, eyes sunken in their sockets. 

“But these are _your_ drawing. _You_ painted them.” He told Crowley, voice cold as stone. 

Crowley’s shoulders sank from the comment, only to swiftly recover into an acute angle. If acute angles were made of two squeaking wood planks. 

“I did paint them” Replied the artist, “But you don’t understand. That angel always shows up in my artworks mysteriously. I never intended to draw him.” 

More sand plunges from the roof, more golden leaves crumple into dust. 

Hastur’s eyes were completely black. He used those eyes to stare at Crowley, who possessed auburn hair with streaks of gold thanks to the setting sun, and pair of golden eyes. Both traits made the artist appear a little blinding, but you’ll always be tempted to stare at him. Crowley also has a very nice set of hands, very slender and skinny in a good way. His nails were painted black, seams filled with leftover paints yet to be washed off. There was also a snake tattooed on his right arm. The part of the snake past the seven-inch mark is crawling out of the loose cuff, hissing while its head lays flat against the wrist bone. 

“Drink,” Said Hastur, lifting his own cup, “and go enjoy some nice sleep.” 

Crowley, in response, tilts his head. He feels worms worming their way into his shoulders, hollowing out the wooden boards. Now, these are two pieces of worm-eaten planks, which are not only squeaky but also threatens to snap at any moment. 

Perhaps, if he were to slowly relax his shoulders, ignoring the worms to the best of his abilities, these two wooden boards can last a little longer. 

“I don’t think this is a problem solvable by sleep. I’m very good at sleeping, can sleep for eighteen hours straight if I wanted to.”

“Then go to bed,” Hastur commanded, the tone of his voice still cold and distant. “You’ve got too much imagination, Crowley. Sleep would get rid of those imaginations that have got nowhere to go”

“So you’re saying that angel, came from my imaginations?” 

“There aren’t angels in this world… There aren’t angels anywhere.”

“I’ve got so many questions I want to ask.” Crowley decided. He took a sip of his wine, letting the aroma of wheat and a spicy flavor wrap around his tongue. “Humans have always used music, words, pictures, and statues to describe angels, so of course they exist. Do they exist?”

“Who can answer those questions?” 

“Dunno.” He pointed upward, “God, probably. Is she, is God real? Is she listening?” Asked the painter, a loopy smile appearing on his face.

Hastur, on the other hand, didn’t smile. That’s the type of person Hastur is. The corner of his mouth always tight in a frown, and he would hug his arms when sitting in a chair. One would think he was nervous or thinking about some complicated and deep questions. But in fact, Hastur might just be in a daze. About two minutes later, he stared down at the table, right index finger tapping against it twice. 

“Don’t ask any more questions. Just go to sleep.” 

==========================================

When it got darker, Crowley bid goodbye to Hastur before returning to his flat in Soho London. 

London’s evening is a smoky, rose color, using the sky as its palette, and the air as its thinner. The resulting hue was as ambiguous and hazy as a love story occurring at midnight, mixed with temptation and loneliness. Crowley let his eyes absorbed the colors, wondering how they would look on the drawing board. 

His flat was big, didn’t contain much furniture, but the ones present tastefully decorated the living area. The studio was a bit of a mess though. The placement of everything inside appearing random, but somehow aligned in a subtle pattern. If you were extraordinarily clever, you’d find this kind of arrangement made the most sense and was the most convenient. However, most people would just find it disorganized. They would infer the owner must live a carefree and negligent life, who was neither good at self-disciplining nor dealing with unexpected visitors. 

Crowley sauntered through the living room, thinking of the soft silk sheets in his bedroom and the stacked cushions on the head of his bed. These thoughts slowly condensed into a craving for sleep, clouding his mind. He likes soft cushions, especially burying himself in a large number of them like a certain reptile in its nest. Dragging his steps towards the bedroom, Crowley glanced into the studio as he passed by. An easel was facing the open door, and atop it, sat an unfinished painting. 

The painter stops to glance at the painting. The bedroom, warm cushions, and sleep suddenly lost all their appeals. He stood by the door and just stared for two solid minutes, only to began approaching the art piece upon regaining his movement. 

It was a very normal painting, displaying a sunny day at the park. On the parchment, some are walking on the grass, some are talking, some picnicking, and others reading. 

It was a very, very normal painting, minus that angel. 

The angel is standing behind a tree, showing only a head and half of his shoulder. He had light golden, cashmere-like curls, and olive-colored eyes. His neckline was tied with a taro-colored lattice Windsor knot. He looked as if he had sneaked out of Heaven to spy on the world, to watch the many earthly joys with his sacred gaze. 

Crowley knew, this angel hiding behind a tree trunk must be wearing a three-piece khaki suit. He’d have a silver snuff bottle hidden in his jacket pocket, and a pocket watch dangling off the vest. Sometimes, the angel would keep a pair of glasses in his coat pocket. The small, round, kind that makes people look nifty. 

As the angel peeked out, his eyes were a little joyful, the corner of his mouth a little raised. How he looked at the pedestrians was one filled with curiosity and delight. When the angel returns to heaven, he would tell God the world is a beautiful place. That it is full of joy and laughter, worthy of a lot of "love". He would cross his hands when saying these things, his ten fingers soft and white, falling and lifting like wings. At least that’s what Crowley imagined when he thought about the angel. 

The painter leaned down, long hair hanging from his shoulders. He suddenly wanted to touch the angel, to touch the other’s face, to feel the other’s hair with his fingertips. _Will that feel like parchment and paint? _Crowley wondered.__

__This idea was very silly. Since Crowley had reached out his hand, only to find out the paint has yet to dry._ _

__A small dot of pale gold stuck to his finger like a spot of light._ _

__The painter snuffs out the tiny light with his thumb._ _

__==========================================_ _

__This angel has always appeared in Crowley’s paintings, unprompted and unsolicited._ _

__He doesn’t remember when it started. Was it five years ago? Seven? Eight? Perhaps even a decade ago. Crowley’s memory isn’t very good. His childhood days were as fuzzy and sticky as glue mixed with baking soda in his mind. A thick, milky, white, mixture. Both his childhood and his shortlived, restless, adolescence were soaked in this mixture, like a layer of glue covering every corner of his mind._ _

__Not wanting to confront this suffocating puddle of glue, Anthony.J.Crowley gave up all discussions and memories of the past after a certain point in time. He tossed the pile of glue into a trash can._ _

__From then on, everything became clearer._ _

__Crowley’s first painting was a portrait of the angel. In that painting, the angel was vague, with only an outline wearing a white robe so thin, he might as well have worn nothing at all. His face and torso were immersed in mist, barely visible against the white background. Large tracts of white paint spread out on the drawing board, forming a gradient from deep, to shallow, to deep once more. Milky white, pale white, egg white, and a white matching the hue of the Cretaceous rock wall, weaved themselves into clouds behind the angel._ _

__Crowley doesn’t know why he drew it. His hands and brush seemed to have moved according to their own will without him realizing it. The painter was wearing a soft black shirt, paint staining his sleeves and a paintbrush tucked behind his ears. He recalled that his hair had also been quite long back then, curling over his shoulder blades like rusty wires._ _

__The process of creating paintings was like a dream. He walked into a thick fog bring nothing but a broken compass. The fog blinded his vision, muddled his memories, and broke up his perceptions. His hand felt so far away from the easel, taking at least five minutes for the brain to receiving signals from the hand, and another five minutes for it to process what the hand is doing._ _

__When the fog finally faded, the angel was already there. With cashmere-like curly hair, round face, neck, and shoulders lined up in an arc, wearing his almost nonexistent white rob. The angel closed his eyes, and the mist dispersed behind him._ _

__The painter didn’t understand how any of this happened. Holding a paintbrush, it felt like he had just awoken from a dream. His head was still a bit heavy too._ _

__That was the first time the angel appeared in his artwork. He came to say hi, and refused to leave, settling down in Crowley’s numerous paintings._ _

__When Crowley painted the senary of Venice, the angel was there. He appeared on a gondola, wearing the white pourpoint of the Renaissance period. The angel was watching a pair of young lovers nestling on the shore, his face filled with child-like innocence and motherly kindness._ _

__When Crowley painted the fair of Florence, the angel was also there. He was among a group of merchants and their customers, carefully selecting coffee beans shipped from the other side of the world._ _

__When Crowley painted the Globe Theatre from Shakespeare's time, the angel once again, snuck his way in. Still in a pure white attire with eyes as bright as ever. He stood in the theater pinching a coin in his right hand, purchasing grapes from a small vendor. There he was, an angel eating grapes at the Globe Theater._ _

__It was as if the angel was traveling through Crowley’s paintings, gradually getting closer and closer to the painter. He was just a pure white shadow at first, becoming clearer over time. The angel has a very cute nose, cheeks, and eye lines similar to classical oil paintings. His eyes are olive-colored, as naive as a child when he was happy, and like the Virgin Mary staring at the body of Jesus when he was sad._ _

__The angel traveled with his paintbrush. Together, they traveled around Rome before and after AD, debated with Ancient Greek sages, sat at King Arthur's round table, and later visited Paris during the reign of terror. When Crowley painted religious subjects, the angel stood behind Eve in a robe on the top of Golgotha or stared at Noah and his huge ark._ _

__The angel was always there, his arrival sudden, expression becoming more and more vivid each painting with no sign of ever leaving._ _

__Who are you, angel? How did you get here? Thought Crowley who repeatedly rubbed together the paint on his fingertips. What do you want to tell me?_ _


	2. Chapter 2

“Which side do you think,” Asked Aziraphale, stretching his neck while leaning against a soft cushion. “Invented art? One of yours, or one of mine?” 

“Definitely not heaven…” Crowley answered absentmindedly. It was the 16th century. The demon wore a piece of chemise while sitting in front of an easel. He diluted the paint on the palette with egg white, then raised an eyebrow to carefully observed the line stretching from Aziraphale's shoulder to his wrist.

Aziraphale moved again, shrugging his shoulders slightly. 

“Stay still Angel, Stay still.”

“I don’t have any modeling experiences.” The angel complained, wrinkling his nose. “It’s also a bit hot today, and the studio is so damp.” 

“The weather very much cool today.” 

“You’re drawing too slowly, I’ve been sitting for a long time.” 

“Hold still for another two hours. And then I’ll tempt you to some food at Mrs.Rosa's new restaurant." Crowley said, unsure if he was snickering or not. 

So Aziraphale became silent once more. Light golden, lamb velvet-like curly hair, white pourpoint, white chemise and opal skin, surrounded by burgundy cushions and silk. Crowley found himself very confident in his artistic talent.

After a few minutes of silence, their conversation resumed. 

“But art might not be one of hell’s creations.” Aziraphale argued. 

“Hell has a lot more creativity.”

“But you made the stars in Heaven. That’s got to be the ealierist works of art.” The angel was tempted to point to the sky, but he held back.   
Crowley raised his head upon hearing those words. There was a thin layer of dust floating in the art studio. The pupils of a snake saw through the dust with golden hues. 

When he looked at Aziraphale, the slanted sunlight just so happens to be passing through the gauze window curtains. Soaking the crimson silk, the light dampens, until just the faintest of light spreads itself across the angels’ shoulders. 

Crowley suddenly felt like he had returned to the beginning of time. When he floated among his creations, looking at a new-born star. A sun, a golden beacon, so pale in color it’s almost pure white. It was waiting to be formed, to be ignited. 

He knew, out of all the stars he has ever created, this will be the most beautiful one. 

==========================================

Crowley’s new piece sold at a high price. His paintings always sold well. The god of luck favored him in this respect. 

"Guess what the collector said?" The painter was sitting on a park bench, his legs stretched out. "He said the angel was the finishing touch. The highlight of the whole painting was that angel."

Hastur sat beside him, arms folded, eyes fixed on the ground. His left eyebrows were slightly higher than his right eyebrows, and the corners of his mouth pressed shut tightly without giving any response. The painter, unsure if his friend was listening, continued. "He said he’s seen all my works. What impressed him the most is that there was always an angel in every painting. He thinks my angel symbolizes something, that he is a metaphor, a puzzle and a surprise deliberately left for the audience."

Crowley snapped his fingers as he finished. "Quite an imaginative idea, isn't it?"

His Friend is still staring at the ground in silence, as if he was attracted by the floor tile between his feet. But Crowley knew he was just in a daze.

There is a small truck selling ice cream nearby. The vendors wore clothes with white and purple checker pattern. Their cheekbones, a sun-dried apple red thanks to the sun. Crowley glanced at the ice cream truck, then sat up a bit. "Want some ice cream?"

Hastur shook his head. 

“My treat.”

Hastur shook his head once more. This conversation seemed to be unbearable for him. While cursing at who knows what, he put his left leg on his right, before taking out a pack of damp cigarettes from his pocket. “I don't understand why you want to eat ice cream. You’ve never ate ice creams before."

"Dunno." Crowley shrugged. His friend's impatience didn't affect him much. "I just sudden want to taste it. I remember eating ice cream with someone a long time ago."

Hasta looked at him. His friend's eyes were very dark, so dark that there were almost no white left behind, so dark that they could hide all of his emotions.

Crowley sometimes felt Hastur's eyes were made with some kind of light-absorbing materials. Even if the most dazzling sunlight enters them, it would be completely swallowed, like a black hole. If he were to paint a portrait of his friend, he would probably use black holes as Hastur’s eyes.

_A giant face floating in space… with black holes for eyes. ___

__“Have you ever thought about switching your life style?" Hastur asked._ _

__Crowley shrugged. “What do you mean?”_ _

__“I don’t know. Try a different way of life. Stop drawing, go do something else.”_ _

__“But I’m an artist. I like what I’m doing, and I’m very good at it.” Crowley laid out his hands, obviously proud of his skills and talents._ _

__Hasta lowered his head, dark eyes staring into the ground, as if a little annoyed._ _

__He suddenly cursed. Cursed at himself, and then shut his mouth. At this moment, "annoyance" seemed to have grew in "despair". A despair, shallow, and subtle._ _

__Crowley felt bored. His back leaned against the bench, sliding down until he was no longer in the sunlight. He looked up for a few seconds, then tilted his neck to look at the pedestrians. Finally, he took out a pair of sunglasses from his pockets. They were retro styled with beautiful silver decoration on the side. Along with Hastur, they fell into a long, dull silence._ _

__Children wanting to buy ice creams ran past them, leaving messy footsteps and tender laughters along the way. Crowley was sure he had bought ice cream here before, with someone else by his side._ _

__==========================================_ _

__“I will always miss those days.” Aziraphale said._ _

__“Which days?”_ _

__“Those… normal days. Taking a scroll in St. James’s Park, feeding the ducks, and eating ice cream together..."_ _

__Crowley grunted his nose in response. He crurled on the sofa with a wool blanket covering his shin, with the TV remote in his hand. Aziraphale leaned against him drowsyly._ _

__The clock read eight o'clock in the evening. All the lights in the bookstore were off, the lit screen of an old-fashioned TV was the only source of light in the room. A man wearing a black top hat and a funny moustache hopped around on the screen, filling it with hilarious gestures._ _

__Nobody said a thing. The black-and-white movie continued as Aziraphale leaned on Crowley’s body. The angel sniffed, letingt out a gentle laugh. The blanket slid off of them, so the angel pulled the blanket up and wrapped it carefully._ _

__"Your feet are showing," Crowley said, touching the soles of Aziraphale's plaid, knitted socks with his toes in an attempt to tickle them. The angel curled his feet into the blanket and smiled, telling the demon how childish he is._ _

__They messed around for a while, before quieting down. The clock ticked, it’s hour hand hanging between eight and nine in Roman numerals. The streets were so very quiet and still._ _

__There was light coming from the window. A very subtle red light, not neon, nor any artificial light. Artificial light can’t possibly achieve such a rich saturation. Outside, the light swayed as if it was alive, expressing it’s emotions through its movement._ _

__Crowley tried to ignore the red light beyond the window. He rubbed his cheek against Aziraphale's head, enjoying the soft hair that felt like the wool of a lamb._ _

__“We’ve never tried these kinds of… intimate contacts before.” Aziraphale said, and Crowley could hear him wieghing his words._ _

__Crowley grunted softly a few more times, then rested his chin on the top of the angel’s head. “Do you like it?”_ _

__“...You really do like messing with me.”_ _

__“Do you like it?”_ _

__Aziraphale sighed, “Fine, I like it. Leaning against eachother feels very comfortable.”_ _

__Crowley buried his nose in Aziraphale’s soft curls, deeply inhaling the other’s scent. “Want something to drink, Angel?”_ _

__“Sure.”_ _

__“Wine?”_ _

__“Tea.” The angel rubbed his eyes. “Wine makes you sleepy.”_ _

__So Crowley went up to make some tea. He hesitated when he left the sofa. The floor was too cold, and the sofa was warm. The sofa had Aziraphale on it._ _

__The devil stepped on the floor barefooted, his knees sore from sitting for so long. He stood still for awhile. Infront of him, was the light coming from the old TV screen. Behind him, red lights danced, reflecting off of his back._ _

__“What do you want to watch later? I can grab a new disc while I’m at it. “Life is Beautiful” or “Roman Holiday”?”_ _

__Aziraphale curled up on the sofa, wrapped in blankets like a hamster. He blinked, took a few seconds to digest the question. "Roman Holiday, dear." The angel replied, voice fuzzy and tired._ _

__When Crowley turned to leave, he heard a certain angel saying that he missed Rome._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got butchered by the ice cream scene when reading the original haha. Going to be trying to update at least once a week, but I'm not a very organized person.


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